Short Pieces - March 2007

The scrawny geranium in my
kitchen window struggles for
sunlight. It keeps reaching. It
has a huge pink blossom. Even
in its ungainliness, it seems
pleased with itself.


My refrigerator door... snapshots,
a postcard, bumper stickers, a
recipe or two, doodles on post-it
notes, a cartoon, newspaper clippings,
numerous reminders to myself.
Rather like my mind...


I never walked a dog, but I had a cat
once that liked to follow me through
the fields behind my house...


Trees, now skeletal, soon to
explode into bud. I feel the
chill of late winter as I walk.
One stands straight and tall,
another has many delicate orange
branches hanging down like a
pumpkin mist against the bright
blue sky. Spring birds sing in
praise of the warmth that will
be here soon.


To laugh, to play, to see everything
with new eyes, a new heart; to
touch and be touched by all things;
to cook and eat a good meal; to
be outside on a spring day; to climb
into a warm bath.


I drove to the beach —a sudden
decision. Standing on the sand I
listened and watched, looking
across the bay at some small
people in dark clothing on the
other side. I found a tiny inner
tube-shaped piece of driftwood,
a small wooden sphere, and a
plastic knee-high shoe from a
three-toed warrior toy. There was
a large ruby too, but I
think it was plastic.


I walked to the river and stood at
the edge. I saw a group of seagulls
that were frightened by my sudden
presence. I heard their wings...
a whoosh of air as they took flight.
I closed my eyes and breathed...
slowly and deeply. I opened my heart
and invited them in. When I looked again,
I noticed some of them had returned. I
stood completely still for what seemed
a long time. I watched quietly as many
of them came back ...until a car drove
by and startled them again.


I am sitting at a table. I close my
eyes and hear cars going by. The
pavement is wet. A clock ticks in
the next room. When I move a little,
I hear fabric rubbing against itself,
and my chair creaks. I notice the sound
of tapping on the keyboard as I write.


So many trees watching over us,
strong and tall and wise, every
one unique just as we are. If only
they could tell us what they have
seen. Maybe we just need to learn
how to listen.


It seemed so simple when we were
little—to play and laugh, to cry,
to climb a tree, splash in the water
at the beach. Layers, like an onion,
grew around us until we almost forgot.